The tabloids gave Andy Warhol a Viking funeral last week, as well they might. At 58 he suffered cardiac arrest following gall-bladder surgery. To the end, he remained surrounded by an aura of popular fame such as no other American artist had ever known in his or her lifetime -- a flash-card recognizability that almost rivaled Picasso's. Millions of Americans who could not have picked Jasper Johns or Henri Matisse from a police lineup could identify that pale, squarish, loose-lipped face with its acne, blinking gaze and silvery wig.
He was, after all, that weird guy who did those soup cans...
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